The Slain and Risen Lamb

Hubert and Jan van Eyck, Adoration of the Mystic Lamb, 1426–32. Lower central interior panel of the Ghent Altarpiece, St. Bavo Cathedral, Ghent, Belgium.

I’ve never heard a Lenten, or Easter, sermon preached from the book of Revelation.[1] However, I think it’s an excellent text for both.

Revelation is full of mind-bending imagery. These images are intended to shock us; to awaken us from our spiritual stupors; to make bold theological, Christological, and ecclesial claims. They’re meant to reveal.

One of these provocative images is the “Lamb standing as if it had been slaughtered” (Rev 5:6, NRSV).[2]

Our English renderings of this verse often minimize the significance conveyed in the Greek. The “as if” introduces uncertainty—the Lamb only appears to have been slain. However, there’s no such uncertainty in the Greek. John, Revelation’s author, uses the Greek perfect tense (the tense used for completed past actions which have present, ongoing implications) for both “standing” (εστηκος) and “slaughtered” (εσφαγμενον). John is communicating that Jesus died (completed past action) and resurrected (completed past action) and that both realities have present, ongoing significance.

It’s the image’s simultaneity—that Jesus is dead and alive, that he bears his crucifixion wounds in his resurrected state—that is so mind-bending. John fuses together what we often tease apart. The image undoubtedly depicts Jesus’ resurrection. It shows that he overcame death when God raised him from the dead. He is alive and victorious! However, it also reveals that Jesus’ wounds are permanent features of his glorified existence. The resurrection doesn’t eclipse the cross. For John, the risen Jesus is still, and always will be, the crucified Jesus.

John’s portrayal of the standing-slaughtered Lamb speaks to the very nature of who Jesus is. It speaks to the way Jesus died, the way he lived, and his current heavenly reign. Reading a bit further in Revelation 5, we get a glimpse of what this looks like.

'You are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals, for you were slaughtered and by your blood you ransomed for God saints from every tribe and language and people and nation’ (Rev 5.9).

 ‘Worthy is the Lamb that was slaughtered to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might
and honor and glory and blessing!’ (Rev 5.12).

The four living creatures and elders praise Jesus’ sacrifice. They worship his victory through slaughter. Surprisingly, it’s Jesus’ death, not his resurrection, that is being celebrated as the victorious act in this hymn of praise. According to G.K. Beale, this worship scene makes clear that “Christ’s overcoming began even before the resurrection.”[3] Beale notes that this is a deliberate move on John’s part. The language of conquering/overcoming/victory, and its connection to faithful witness, is pervasive in Revelation. John intentionally redefines what victory and overcoming look like to help the churches reorient how they understand their present shortcomings, temptations, and hardships. For John, faithful witness = victory; faithful witness even to death = conquering; the way of the Lamb = overcoming.

To clarify, John is not advocating martyrdom. But he is advocating for a massive paradigm shift—that the churches radically redefine their understanding of victory. Victory is not measured by political influence, military might, personal wealth, societal standing, or self-preservation. Rather, victory is faithful witness. John wants them to understand that living their lives in Lamb-like fashion is victory, even if it looks like defeat. He wants them to know that in their faithfulness and obedience to Jesus, they’ve already overcome, they’re already victorious, even if this requires great sacrifice and suffering (to the point of martyrdom).

The message is the same for us today.

The standing-slaughtered Lamb isn’t just a profound theological statement. It’s the very pattern for our Christian lives. I frequently hear the mantra, “We can’t get to Easter without going through Good Friday.” While true, I think it gives a wrongful impression that we somehow leave the crucifixion behind; that somehow the resurrection nullifies rather than vindicates the cross. For John, Jesus’ death and resurrection are inseparable, simultaneous, ongoing realities. As followers of the Lamb, we’re called to make space for both. We live with resurrection hope while walking the Lamb’s path.

Lent is a time of contemplation. It’s a season in which we gaze upon Jesus—his sacrificial life and death—and reflect on ourselves. For forty days we’re invited to ponder how we live, how closely we “follow the Lamb wherever he goes” (Rev 14:4). As we march toward the cross and the end of Lent, may we remember this glorious image from Revelation that so powerfully holds together Good Friday and Easter.  

[1] I also think it’s an excellent text for Advent, but more on that later this year.

[2] This image is provocative for many reasons. In verse 5, the elder claims “See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah…has triumphed.” John expects to see a Lion, but sees a Lamb instead. Jesus, the Lion-Lamb. Additionally, Revelation 5 describes the Lamb as having seven horns and seven eyes.

[3] Beale, G. K. The Book of Revelation: A Commentary on the Greek Text. Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 1999.

The Knower of Hearts

Throughout my PhD program, I’ve been ramping up my Koine Greek (the language the New Testament was written in). Recently, I came across the word καρδιογνώστης (kardiognōstēs).

Like Germans, Greeks were fond of compounding words. Hence, καρδιογνώστης comes from καρδιο (heart) + γινώσκω (to know). Essentially, καρδιογνώστης means “a heart-knower” or a “knower of the heart.”

This noun only occurs twice in the New Testament, both in the book of Acts (1:24 and 15:8). Both times the word is used to describe God. Both occur in contexts where the early church leaders are seeking wisdom and discernment for a decision they’re needing to make.

In Acts 1:24, the apostles are trying to decide who will replace Judas. As they seek to live out Jesus’ commission, they need someone else to join the band of apostles. They seek discernment through prayer, “You, Lord, the heart-knower…” (translation mine).

In Acts 15:8, Paul and Barnabas join the apostles and elders to discuss the pressing issue of whether Gentiles, who were coming to faith in Jesus, needed to uphold the law of Moses. After much debate, Peter reminds them that “God is the heart-knower…” (translation mine).

I think this is a beautiful way to speak about God. God is the knower of our inner life. God knows our deepest desires, intentions, hopes, sadnesses, fears, joys, confusions, shortcomings, and frustrations. I find much solace knowing that the knower of my heart is guiding, helping, and leading me; that I can trust the heart-knower as I make difficult decisions or face challenging situations. Simply put, it’s comforting to know that God knows me.

Wherever we find ourselves today, may we entrust our lives to God, the one who knows our hearts.

Sandbox of Ideas

I’m currently a third-year doctoral student. About a year and a quarter into my studies, I finally realized what the PhD was all about: it’s like playing in a sandbox.

Rather than toddlers, the sandbox is full of adults (though we often feel juvenile in our thinking; our academic brains are still forming).

Instead of sand, we’re playing with ideas.

And rather than building sandcastles, we’re building our dissertations.

Playing in the PhD sandbox looks like this: read the greatest theologians, philosophers, biblical scholars, literary critics, sociologists, etc. from the past 200-2,000 years. Now…

1) Elucidate their method, argument, main points, and how they arrive at their conclusions

2) Explain the above intelligently

3) Compare, contrast, and critique these thinkers and their ideas

4) Explain the above coherently

4) Add your own voice and contributions to these thinkers and their field

5) Explain the above academically

When people ask what the PhD is like (or how it’s going), I use this analogy. I tell them that I spend my days playing in a sandbox of ideas. And, just like a real sandbox, sometimes it’s fun, sometimes it’s not. Sometimes you get sand in your hair, mouth, and eyes, and go home crying. Other times you’re so enthralled with creating and interacting that it’s glorious fun! Sometimes you build a masterpiece, but sometimes the sand doesn’t hold and your castle crumbles, despite your best attempts.

Most days, it’s awesome just getting the opportunity to play.

The Ongoing Struggle with Time

I wish I could say that God slayed my Time idol once and for all during my 40-day stint at Poverello. Not so. While I’ve made progress (thanks to God’s grace), my struggle with time is still very real.

I still live in the near-paranoia that there isn’t enough time; the tension between giving time and keeping it to myself; the rage against efficiency and productivity. Like I said in my last post, time is valuable. It is God’s gift. And I want to spend it well.  

Kate Bowler recently introduced me to Mary Oliver’s poem, “Summer Day.”[1] The latter part of the poem goes like this:

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

I’m not particularly adept at interpreting poetry (to the chagrin of my high school AP Literature teacher[2]), but what I know is that poetry is written art—it can be interpreted any number of ways.

I think the final question in Oliver’s poem is simultaneously haunting and invigorating. Life is wild. It is precious. And we only have one. Hence, Oliver’s inquiry—how do we intend to spend it? While the poem crescendos in this question, it’s really the third to last question that punches me in the gut.

Up to this point in the poem, Oliver has been reveling in God’s creation. She has spent an entire day meandering in a field, soaking in the sun, looking at grasshoppers, oblivious to deadlines and to-do lists. She then asks,

“Tell me, what else should I have done?”

The genius of the question (I think) is that it’s both rhetorical and real. Oliver’s question invites her audience to think and reflect; to consider how they spend their days; to answer the question for themselves. But I also think she’s genuinely asking herself, her audience, and God, whether she should’ve spent her day differently. In reflecting on her own leisurely day, she wants to know whether she should’ve been attentive to other things. She attuned to what she thought was most important, but is requesting feedback. Should she have invested her time elsewhere?

Oliver’s deeply existential question plagues us all. And how we answer it varies dramatically.

For many, Oliver’s jaunt in the field feels like a giant waste of time, especially considering our differing commitments, obligations, and life circumstances. For others, lounging in God’s creation is right on the money. I think it’s important to recognize that Oliver’s summer day is descriptive (it works for her), not necessarily prescriptive (it’s not meant for all of us).

What is prescriptive, however, is the attentiveness and intentionality that seep through Oliver’s experience. Oliver’s poem advocates for a deep awareness of the things around us; for radical attunement to how we spend our time. We are responsible for what we do with our time, for attuning to what’s most important. Why? Because death is the great equalizer. It’s coming for us all. And it’s this last bit—imminent death—that makes Oliver’s questions that much weightier and more urgent.

I crave Oliver’s experience. Yet, like most of us, I don’t have the luxury of burning time in a field all day. I spend most of my days in productivity’s grasp, buzzing around to get as much done as possible before the clock hits 5pm (or sometimes 8pm). I often define this as intentional. If I’m doing than I’m not squandering. This is what I think I should be doing. But maybe I should be doing something else. Perhaps busyness is the biggest waste of all.

And this is why the third-to-last question particularly gets me—I so rarely ask it. And I think I’m missing out by neglecting to ask it.

What I’ve come to realize is that how we spend our days equates to how we spend our months, our years, and ultimately, our lifetime. Despite what physics is theorizing, from my current location on Earth, time still feels very linear, one-dimensional, and fast. Considering, perhaps we can intentionally slow down by asking ourselves on the daily,

“Tell me, what else should I have done?”

[1] To clarify, I don’t know Kate Bowler personally (though I would be honored to). I’m going through her Lenten devotional right now.

[2] Ms. Bennett, if you ever read this, you were the first person to affirm my writing gift. I’ve carried this with me ever since.

Inefficient Service

In my previous post, I commented on how miserly I am with my time. Considering (as you can imagine), how I spend my time is of great importance to me. I want full say, full control over what I do with the time I have. Apparently, this is true even when it comes to service.

Frequently, we’re unaware of how rooted our attitudes are until we’re in new settings. This was true of Poverello—it merely magnified my deep-seated attitude toward time.

During the third week of Lent last year, my husband asked me how volunteering was going. I remember telling him that I felt like there was a lot of standing around time; that I wasn’t doing very much. While absurd, I remember telling him I would like to “efficient-ize” serving the homeless. He chuckled at my comment and said, “Remember, the time you’ve most enjoyed has been talking with the other people volunteering.” Once again, he was right.

After hearing my husband’s comment, I felt like Saul (Paul) in Acts 9:18—something like scales fell from my eyes and my sight was restored. I chose to approach my remaining time at Poverello through the lens of his comment. My big takeaway was this:

Service isn’t (always) about efficiency.

While glaringly obvious to many, this revelation was God’s greatest gift to me during those 40 days. What I failed to realize, but which my husband’s exhortation unearthed, was that I was approaching service like I approached my to-do list. Service was a task to be accomplished, quantified by how many people I served, how many tables I bussed, how busy I was during the time I was giving. Standing around talking to people, while waiting for the kitchen expeditor to call out which plates were ready, didn’t feel like service.

However, the paradigm shift brought on by my husband’s comment allowed me to approach Poverello not as something to do, but as something to experience. God wasn’t asking me to be busier. God was inviting me to enjoy the people, enjoy being a part of something bigger than myself, and dare I say, enjoy the inefficiency. These very lulls and lags created the space, the quiet, for me to reflect on the meaning of service.  And ultimately, to reflect on my attitude toward time. My biggest takeaway was this:

Time isn’t (always) about efficiency.

When it comes to time, I often confuse quality with efficiency. Ironically, in an effort to optimize or “efficient-ize” my time, I frequently forsake the very quality I seek. To clarify, I do think we should be conscientious of our time.[1] Time is a valuable resource and needs to be stewarded well. However, for me, I often conflate stewarding with streamlining, and end up sacrificing relationships and life’s simple pleasures on the altar of efficiency. Poverello taught me that quality and efficiency aren’t synonymous; and that sometimes, inefficiency actually yields higher quality.   

There were many sub-lessons within these overarching ones—the importance of serving with a community of people, the church’s call to service, that giving time does not mean losing time—but the greatest of these was simply that service (and time) are about being present, conversing, and indulging in relationship.

[1] More on this in the next post.